Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Low Anthem
The Low Anthem is coming to Harrisburg on Monday, November 8th, at 7PM. Tickets are $10. If you ever needed an excuse to come visit me, here it is. Floor space will be provided for those wanting to stay the night.
Friday, September 24, 2010
An Open Letter to Ira Glass
Dear Sir,
Though it has no bearing on how you will conduct your radio program in the future, I would like to share a few ways in which This American Life has affected my particular American life.
Our letter today has three acts, detailing my particular interactions with This American Life.
Act One: Depression
No, not the clincal/chemical mental health diagnosis, just a general malaise that arises just about every time I listen to an episode of This American Life. An example: your show of March 27, 2007, in which you profiled New York City's prank/guerilla theater troupe Improv Everywhere. I love Improv Everywhere, and have participated in copycat and inspired-by groups. So it was with great pleasure when I heard you announce that you were profiling Improv Everywhere. This pleasure turned to a growing sense of dread when I realized that you were profiling Improv Everywhere's failures.
You yourself, Mr. Glass, have suggested that many of your shows deal with the "crypto-theme" of wrongness. Perhaps this is why I find listening to your show to be an existentially painful experience. I do not enjoy wrongness in myself, or hearing about how others are wrong. This is not only the case with Improv Everywhere, to whom I have some emotional connection. I am even depressed by episodes whose subjects have no connection to me whatsoever. It is the fact of the wrongness and failure inherent in so many of your shows that depresses me.
It took much listening to your show to realize that this was the case, but even once I realized that This American Life was not having a positive impact on my emotional state, I did not stop listening. Depressed is not necessarily a negative review, coming from me. Some of my favorite music (The Low Anthem), movies (Aguirre, The Wrath of God), and books (Hemingway in general) leave me with a feeling of hopelessness about the world in general, and, contradictory as it may sound, this feeling is not always unpleasant. Knowing this about myself, I kept listening to your show.
Act Two: Redemption
Until I stopped, and swore off This American Life for lighter radio fare (Car Talk; All Songs Considered). But then a friend sent me a link to your show of August 28, 1998. Entitled "Notes On Camp," it chronicled various summer camp experiences. Both this friend and I had been co-workers at a summer camp.
I listened through the entire episode, cringing as each act ended and a new one began, waiting for the revelation that would turn the whole experience sour.
It never came. I listened through the stories of color days, of camp crushes, of bloody mary and comic hijinks in Israeli army camp. None of it aroused that creeping unhappiness that accompanies most every other episode of This American Life.
I was shocked. I listened to the whole piece again, and again, no malaise. Only minor annoyance at the girls' repetitive "D-A-V-E-Y DAVEY!" song. The piece evoked some pleasant nostalgia for my own summer camp days, and gave cause to meditate on summer camp's deeper meaning: "[camp] is using all the stagecraft that all the world's religions have always used... but for an entirely secular purpose: to thrill children."
This American Life was, perhaps, redeemed.
Act Three: Prequel
Now, however, we must go back to the beginning. I had heard snippets on the radio, and heard my college friends dropping your name, Mr. Glass, with great reverence. But this world is saturated with so much media, and there are fewer hours in the days than there are hours of quality recorded entertainment, so I passed This American Life on by.
My formative experiences with your show occurred on a road trip. It was a situation that would perhaps make a worthwhile setup for a future episode of your show: a friend set up the trip, then found herself delayed, leaving me to ride south from Pennsylvania to Louisiana with a minivan of people I had never met. She met up with us in New Orleans, but on the southbound trip and then again on the homeward trip, we listened to This American Life.
We clocked more than 30 hours of driving, not all (but a significant portion) of it accompanied by the sound of your voice, Mr. Glass. It was on this trip that the seeds of doubt were planted in my mind: would every episode leave me feeling like the world was a place of glum failure?
Regardless, we listened to many, many episodes, so it wasn't so unexpected when, at a later stage in the same journey, sans minivan full of friends, I walked into a New York City bakery and heard your voice from the loudspeakers.
It was early January--the cold, cold January of 2009--temperatures hovering around zero. I wore a huge old army surplus backpack, stuffed with two weeks of clothes. New Orleans clothes, not New York clothes. I was wearing my only two long-sleeved shirts, with multiple t-shirts layered underneath. I was cold and hungry, without a warm place to stay for another eight hours, and without spare cash. I looked and felt like one of New York's many unfortunate homeless. Later that day, in fact, I would stand in a subway station and ask passersby to swipe their Metrocard to get me into the subway (to no avail). When I stepped into that bakery, all I wanted was one of the cookies on the full, hot cookie sheets they were drawing out of the oven. Just one, to put some warmth inside of me.
I don't know why, but I didn't suppose that engaging the baker in conversation about This American Life -- the episode playing over the speakers, the same episode I had recently heard in the van on the way through Washington D.C. -- would get me a free cookie. Of course (as you, the consummate storyteller, must have guessed) it did. As we discussed the story of the baby-doll salesgirl and the unfortunate ramifications of the colors of the dolls' skins, she pulled a new sheet of chocolate chip walnut cookies out of the oven, and handed one across the counter.
Epilogue
So, Mr. Glass, despite the emotional turmoil that your show has, and continues to put me through, I owe you a debt of gratitude. In my moment of great need, a passing familiarity with your program got me exactly what I needed, when nothing else could have.
Since listening to that fateful summer camp episode, I have not listened to your show. My hesitation is too great--I have reached a place where I am at peace with This American Life, and if I were to pursue your show any further, that delicate equilibrium might be upset.
As someone who also appreciates and aspires to the art of storytelling, I respect your work, but have come to understand that it is not for me.
Best of luck with the program,
G. S. Albright
Though it has no bearing on how you will conduct your radio program in the future, I would like to share a few ways in which This American Life has affected my particular American life.
Our letter today has three acts, detailing my particular interactions with This American Life.
Act One: Depression
No, not the clincal/chemical mental health diagnosis, just a general malaise that arises just about every time I listen to an episode of This American Life. An example: your show of March 27, 2007, in which you profiled New York City's prank/guerilla theater troupe Improv Everywhere. I love Improv Everywhere, and have participated in copycat and inspired-by groups. So it was with great pleasure when I heard you announce that you were profiling Improv Everywhere. This pleasure turned to a growing sense of dread when I realized that you were profiling Improv Everywhere's failures.
You yourself, Mr. Glass, have suggested that many of your shows deal with the "crypto-theme" of wrongness. Perhaps this is why I find listening to your show to be an existentially painful experience. I do not enjoy wrongness in myself, or hearing about how others are wrong. This is not only the case with Improv Everywhere, to whom I have some emotional connection. I am even depressed by episodes whose subjects have no connection to me whatsoever. It is the fact of the wrongness and failure inherent in so many of your shows that depresses me.
It took much listening to your show to realize that this was the case, but even once I realized that This American Life was not having a positive impact on my emotional state, I did not stop listening. Depressed is not necessarily a negative review, coming from me. Some of my favorite music (The Low Anthem), movies (Aguirre, The Wrath of God), and books (Hemingway in general) leave me with a feeling of hopelessness about the world in general, and, contradictory as it may sound, this feeling is not always unpleasant. Knowing this about myself, I kept listening to your show.
Act Two: Redemption
Until I stopped, and swore off This American Life for lighter radio fare (Car Talk; All Songs Considered). But then a friend sent me a link to your show of August 28, 1998. Entitled "Notes On Camp," it chronicled various summer camp experiences. Both this friend and I had been co-workers at a summer camp.
I listened through the entire episode, cringing as each act ended and a new one began, waiting for the revelation that would turn the whole experience sour.
It never came. I listened through the stories of color days, of camp crushes, of bloody mary and comic hijinks in Israeli army camp. None of it aroused that creeping unhappiness that accompanies most every other episode of This American Life.
I was shocked. I listened to the whole piece again, and again, no malaise. Only minor annoyance at the girls' repetitive "D-A-V-E-Y DAVEY!" song. The piece evoked some pleasant nostalgia for my own summer camp days, and gave cause to meditate on summer camp's deeper meaning: "[camp] is using all the stagecraft that all the world's religions have always used... but for an entirely secular purpose: to thrill children."
This American Life was, perhaps, redeemed.
Act Three: Prequel
Now, however, we must go back to the beginning. I had heard snippets on the radio, and heard my college friends dropping your name, Mr. Glass, with great reverence. But this world is saturated with so much media, and there are fewer hours in the days than there are hours of quality recorded entertainment, so I passed This American Life on by.
My formative experiences with your show occurred on a road trip. It was a situation that would perhaps make a worthwhile setup for a future episode of your show: a friend set up the trip, then found herself delayed, leaving me to ride south from Pennsylvania to Louisiana with a minivan of people I had never met. She met up with us in New Orleans, but on the southbound trip and then again on the homeward trip, we listened to This American Life.
We clocked more than 30 hours of driving, not all (but a significant portion) of it accompanied by the sound of your voice, Mr. Glass. It was on this trip that the seeds of doubt were planted in my mind: would every episode leave me feeling like the world was a place of glum failure?
Regardless, we listened to many, many episodes, so it wasn't so unexpected when, at a later stage in the same journey, sans minivan full of friends, I walked into a New York City bakery and heard your voice from the loudspeakers.
It was early January--the cold, cold January of 2009--temperatures hovering around zero. I wore a huge old army surplus backpack, stuffed with two weeks of clothes. New Orleans clothes, not New York clothes. I was wearing my only two long-sleeved shirts, with multiple t-shirts layered underneath. I was cold and hungry, without a warm place to stay for another eight hours, and without spare cash. I looked and felt like one of New York's many unfortunate homeless. Later that day, in fact, I would stand in a subway station and ask passersby to swipe their Metrocard to get me into the subway (to no avail). When I stepped into that bakery, all I wanted was one of the cookies on the full, hot cookie sheets they were drawing out of the oven. Just one, to put some warmth inside of me.
I don't know why, but I didn't suppose that engaging the baker in conversation about This American Life -- the episode playing over the speakers, the same episode I had recently heard in the van on the way through Washington D.C. -- would get me a free cookie. Of course (as you, the consummate storyteller, must have guessed) it did. As we discussed the story of the baby-doll salesgirl and the unfortunate ramifications of the colors of the dolls' skins, she pulled a new sheet of chocolate chip walnut cookies out of the oven, and handed one across the counter.
Epilogue
So, Mr. Glass, despite the emotional turmoil that your show has, and continues to put me through, I owe you a debt of gratitude. In my moment of great need, a passing familiarity with your program got me exactly what I needed, when nothing else could have.
Since listening to that fateful summer camp episode, I have not listened to your show. My hesitation is too great--I have reached a place where I am at peace with This American Life, and if I were to pursue your show any further, that delicate equilibrium might be upset.
As someone who also appreciates and aspires to the art of storytelling, I respect your work, but have come to understand that it is not for me.
Best of luck with the program,
G. S. Albright
Monday, September 20, 2010
Get Low & Winter's Bone
On Saturday, I went to Harrisburg's Midtown Cinema to see "Get Low." You may remember my being very excited about this movie based on the trailer(s) a few months ago. I've also recently attended the Midtown Cinema to see "Winter's Bone." The two movies bear a comparison.
 |
| "No Damn Trespassing." |
Let me start by recommending "Get Low." Robert Duvall and Bill Murray turn in amazing performances. The movie itself is nothing special; a period piece based on a true story featuring a few outstanding shots and mediocre pacing. It is, in some ways, a mystery movie. Duvall's character (Felix Bush)'s intentions are never clear, and the all events that follow might, or perhaps might not, be his doing. Bill Murray is the money-loving undertaker who is willing to go the extra mile for... Felix's sake? for his own sake? That mystery also unfolds, though is resolved much less satisfactorily than the story's central mystery: What lies in Felix Bush's past? The reveal (don't worry, I won't spoil it) is a masterpiece of acting. Duvall stands onstage and tells a story and the camera shows admirable restraint. We see him telling his story. We see the reactions of the important characters. We see no flashbacks or cutaways. This movie knows its strengths, and uses them well.
"Winter's Bone" has some similarities: a story set in rural America that unfolds into a suspenseful mystery. The difference is that Winter's Bone is set in the contemporary Ozarks in the midst of a meth-cooking extended family. When her father posts her family's house as bail, Ree Dolly (Jennifer Lawrence) sets out to find him in order to save the family.
 |
| The guy on the left is not Viggo Mortensen, but he could be. |
Unlike "Get Low," the mystery here is simple: where is he? Unlike "Get Low" this movie's strength is in its atmosphere. The acting is believable, the suspense works, at time achieving Hitchcockian proportions (e.g. The scene when the cops pull over the pickup truck. That's all I'll say). The movie's greatest success, though, is in selling this slice of rural America. At times feeling like a mob movie, at times like a noir, at times like a coming-of-age story, it maintains its cold blue gaze on Ree and her extended family, and
the minutiae that define their lives (sharing recently-killed vension, teaching a five-year-old to hunt squirrel, first-name familiarity with the bail-bondsman). It is this atmosphere that makes "Winter's Bone" a memorable movie, and (I hesitate to say this, considering how much I hyped "Get Low") the better of the two.
But go see them both, and let me know what you think.
P.S. I really wanted to title this post "Got Low," but then I decided to incorporate "Winter's Bone" as well. Just wanted to let y'all know.
Traveling to Swarthmore
This coming Sunday, 9/26 I will be in Philadelphia, then at Swarthmore for pasta bar. If you read this blog and will be in the area, I hope to see you there.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Nighthawks
For one, the silver coffee machines. Not exactly like the giant copper-and-brass eagle that sits astride our espresso machine, but the shape is the same. Secondly, the customers: ensconced in their seats, making their drinks last longer than they probably should, just to stay inside and enjoy the light for a while. Just like our regulars. Thirdly, the windows: the Scholar's storefront is completely glass, the view blocked only by a few concert posters and bus schedules. Perhaps most uncannily, The street, with its abandoned-but-still-respectable buildings is a dead ringer for Third Street in Midtown. You'll have to come here and see it sometime.
Antonio
An important part of my training at Midtown Scholar has been learning to identify the regulars. When some particular someones walk in, my co-worker or co-workers will glance significantly at the new arrival and say to me, "Oh, that's Monica, she's--" usually at this point, the new arrival will have reached the bar, and my tutor will have to turn away: "Hi Monica, how are you doing today?" leaving me to ascertain this particular regular's foibles on my own.
But the other day, Liz was able to say to me "that's Antonio. He's a voodou priest. Hi Antonio, what can I get for you?"
Antonio is a short man who wears, without fail: 1) a pair of sturdy work pants that bunch up around the tops of his boots. 2) said boots. 3) a black Sikh-style turban. That day, and every time I've seen him since, he's carried an unlit cigar, which he uses to punctuate a chosen few of his already-sparse remarks.
The first time I met Antonio, he and Liz got to talking about our discount book trucks out in front of the store. "I saw this little kit out there Antonio, it made me think of you because it was a voodou kit, and they had spelled voodou the right way, with a 'u.'"
Antonio looked up from the soda fountain where he was filling his cup with ice.
"A voodou kit, you say?" he said. Liz nodded. Antonio came over to the bar and tapped his cigar against the edge of the rail. "Now Liz," he said "You know I am a deeply spiritual person, and I know you are a spiritual person as well. I think you should not be selling that thing here. That kind of thing is not good for a place." "Well," said Liz, "it's right out on the cart out front."
He paused, unsure whether to fill his soda or begin his mission. He set the empty cup on the bar and passed through the doors.
"Once," said Liz, "Antonio told me my fortune--"
But then another customer came in through the door. Later, Antonio picked up his soda cup with a shrug--the voodou box was nowhere to be found.
But the other day, Liz was able to say to me "that's Antonio. He's a voodou priest. Hi Antonio, what can I get for you?"
Antonio is a short man who wears, without fail: 1) a pair of sturdy work pants that bunch up around the tops of his boots. 2) said boots. 3) a black Sikh-style turban. That day, and every time I've seen him since, he's carried an unlit cigar, which he uses to punctuate a chosen few of his already-sparse remarks.
The first time I met Antonio, he and Liz got to talking about our discount book trucks out in front of the store. "I saw this little kit out there Antonio, it made me think of you because it was a voodou kit, and they had spelled voodou the right way, with a 'u.'"
Antonio looked up from the soda fountain where he was filling his cup with ice.
"A voodou kit, you say?" he said. Liz nodded. Antonio came over to the bar and tapped his cigar against the edge of the rail. "Now Liz," he said "You know I am a deeply spiritual person, and I know you are a spiritual person as well. I think you should not be selling that thing here. That kind of thing is not good for a place." "Well," said Liz, "it's right out on the cart out front."
He paused, unsure whether to fill his soda or begin his mission. He set the empty cup on the bar and passed through the doors.
"Once," said Liz, "Antonio told me my fortune--"
But then another customer came in through the door. Later, Antonio picked up his soda cup with a shrug--the voodou box was nowhere to be found.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Two Farm Musings
I. Delicate Brutality: The Roto-Tiller
Machinery, in particular power tools of the farm and the woodshop, is both brutal and delicate; I challenge anyone to find other things that embody that unlikely pairing.
The roto-tiller's blades cut through the grass and soil, tearing them apart and turning them upside down with efficiency and brutality. The first garden snake to encounter the machine received a wound that did not prove immediately fatal, but gave me enough remorse to take the time to toss the second one into the brush pile, not trusting its instincts for dealing with the machine.
Despite this ability to so quickly destroy and overturn so much, the roto-tiller is also sensitive, like a poet or the fine-adjustment knob on a coffee grinder or a sextant. Roots, stones, and the fragments of brick and glass that remind me of the urban part of this urban farm can all cause it to cough and shudder, and sometimes jam the blades. Slight hummocks and valleys in the field drive the machine perceptibly off course, and the heavy spinning blades only reinforce the false directions. It seems incongruous: these are exactly the things that roto-tillers encounter in regular operation, yet these are the things that are its downfall.
II. Refinement: Espresso and Compost
Compost, I realized while sifting it into a wheelbarrow, is not unlike espresso. Before I continue, let me elaborate on compost sifting. After many other, longer-term processes, the compost is ready to be spread on a field. First, however, the larger pieces that have not decomposed (twigs, rinds, etc.) need to be removed. So I laid two boards parallel across the sides of the wheelbarrow and laid the sifter on it. The sifter is a square wooden frame with mesh nailed to the bottom. Once I've shoveled two shovelfuls of compost onto the mesh, I slide it back and forth along the boards. Any more than two, and it will jam; that is, there will not be enough space in the frame for the compost to shake about and settle the small pieces through the mesh. The wet hot compost rubs into the grain of the parallel boards and lubricates the frame's sliding. Once the wheelbarrow is full, it gets dumped into a compost hopper, stored in the heat of the day until it is needed.
All that to say that compost is like espresso, because both are a fine brown powder. On one hand they are different: compost is the lowest form; the beginnings, the primordial ooze from which plants, perhaps coffee plants, will emerge. Espresso is, on the other hand, the highest and most refined form: grown, dried, roasted, ground, and brewed, with any number of trans-continental shipments in between those steps. It comes served as a liquid in a tiny cup in a refined atmosphere in the artsy part of town, while compost fills wheelbarrows and is spread by sunburned men and women on an acre lot amidst Section 8 housing, across the street from an auto body shop.
But compost, too, is a refined form, its temperature is taken throughout the process. It is turned multiple times, mixed, and cared for. The sifting process and the process of pulling a shot have a similar number of steps. And the espresso grounds, the little puck that falls out of the filter between drinks, can, in the best of circumstances, make its way to compost pile, continuing the be refined.
Machinery, in particular power tools of the farm and the woodshop, is both brutal and delicate; I challenge anyone to find other things that embody that unlikely pairing.
The roto-tiller's blades cut through the grass and soil, tearing them apart and turning them upside down with efficiency and brutality. The first garden snake to encounter the machine received a wound that did not prove immediately fatal, but gave me enough remorse to take the time to toss the second one into the brush pile, not trusting its instincts for dealing with the machine.
Despite this ability to so quickly destroy and overturn so much, the roto-tiller is also sensitive, like a poet or the fine-adjustment knob on a coffee grinder or a sextant. Roots, stones, and the fragments of brick and glass that remind me of the urban part of this urban farm can all cause it to cough and shudder, and sometimes jam the blades. Slight hummocks and valleys in the field drive the machine perceptibly off course, and the heavy spinning blades only reinforce the false directions. It seems incongruous: these are exactly the things that roto-tillers encounter in regular operation, yet these are the things that are its downfall.
II. Refinement: Espresso and Compost
Compost, I realized while sifting it into a wheelbarrow, is not unlike espresso. Before I continue, let me elaborate on compost sifting. After many other, longer-term processes, the compost is ready to be spread on a field. First, however, the larger pieces that have not decomposed (twigs, rinds, etc.) need to be removed. So I laid two boards parallel across the sides of the wheelbarrow and laid the sifter on it. The sifter is a square wooden frame with mesh nailed to the bottom. Once I've shoveled two shovelfuls of compost onto the mesh, I slide it back and forth along the boards. Any more than two, and it will jam; that is, there will not be enough space in the frame for the compost to shake about and settle the small pieces through the mesh. The wet hot compost rubs into the grain of the parallel boards and lubricates the frame's sliding. Once the wheelbarrow is full, it gets dumped into a compost hopper, stored in the heat of the day until it is needed.
All that to say that compost is like espresso, because both are a fine brown powder. On one hand they are different: compost is the lowest form; the beginnings, the primordial ooze from which plants, perhaps coffee plants, will emerge. Espresso is, on the other hand, the highest and most refined form: grown, dried, roasted, ground, and brewed, with any number of trans-continental shipments in between those steps. It comes served as a liquid in a tiny cup in a refined atmosphere in the artsy part of town, while compost fills wheelbarrows and is spread by sunburned men and women on an acre lot amidst Section 8 housing, across the street from an auto body shop.
But compost, too, is a refined form, its temperature is taken throughout the process. It is turned multiple times, mixed, and cared for. The sifting process and the process of pulling a shot have a similar number of steps. And the espresso grounds, the little puck that falls out of the filter between drinks, can, in the best of circumstances, make its way to compost pile, continuing the be refined.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Paraprosdokian
Thanks to Heather, who sent me an email featuring some paraprosdokians. To quote the wikipedia entry, a paraprosdokian is "a figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part. It is frequently used for humorous or dramatic effect, sometimes producing an anticlimax."
If you didn't click on that link to wikipedia above, click on it now, and read an amusing list of paraprosdokians from such luminaries as Mitch Hedberg and Jack Handey.
P.S. Writing Mitch Hedberg's name reminded me of this. Not necessarily a paraprosdokian, but definitely useful to remember while apartment hunting: "I bought a house. It's a two-bedroom house, but I think it's up to me how many bedrooms there are, don't you? Fuck you real estate lady, this bedroom has a oven in it. This bedroom has a lot of people sittin' around watchin' TV. This bedroom's over in that guy's house. Sir, you got one of my bedrooms, are you aware? Don't decorate it."
P.P.S. The above is quoted from "Mitch All Together." Here is a clip of him doing the same bit, but the delivery is inferior to the CD. Start at 3:46.
If you didn't click on that link to wikipedia above, click on it now, and read an amusing list of paraprosdokians from such luminaries as Mitch Hedberg and Jack Handey.
P.S. Writing Mitch Hedberg's name reminded me of this. Not necessarily a paraprosdokian, but definitely useful to remember while apartment hunting: "I bought a house. It's a two-bedroom house, but I think it's up to me how many bedrooms there are, don't you? Fuck you real estate lady, this bedroom has a oven in it. This bedroom has a lot of people sittin' around watchin' TV. This bedroom's over in that guy's house. Sir, you got one of my bedrooms, are you aware? Don't decorate it."
P.P.S. The above is quoted from "Mitch All Together." Here is a clip of him doing the same bit, but the delivery is inferior to the CD. Start at 3:46.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Fruits of My (and others') Labor
The Joshua Farm, where I'm spending my mornings, is about 1 acre, 1/2 under cultivation. They run a twice-weekly farm stand, a CSA, and in the summers, they work with high school kids.Mondays and Thursdays are farm stand days, and thus harvest days. I spent this morning cutting okra, peppers, and green beans. It turns out that 1) okra leaves make you itchy, and 2) that itching is relieved by rubbing dirt on the itchy areas. Who knew?
I got to bring home some green beans, garlic, and peppers home, and so I made some lunch, including green beans sauteed in garlic and butter. Chili, made with the peppers (sweet and chili) is next up...
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The Scholar, my place of gainful employment
There it is. Note my bosses, Kinsey and Beth conferring behind the counter. When it's slow in the coffee bar, we have espresso time trials and informal tea tastings. My caffeine tolerances have yet to catch up with the amounts I am consuming.
There's Grandma in the bookstore, reading an appropriate book.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Just Sayin'
"And even though dolphins curse their human-like intelligence when they hear us say it, this is NPR."
-Car Talk
Monday, September 6, 2010
No Last Call
In the course of poking around Craigslist, looking for (more) employment, I stumbled upon an ad for a street band. This ad, in particular. "Are you looking for a really fun, low-pressure outlet for your musical talents and are you 25 or older?"
Well, yes to all, except that age thing. So I sent them an email mentioning my tenure in Swarthmore's Balkan Brass Band, and detailing my love of street bands, in particular, Providence, RI's What Cheer? Brigade (recent sleeper hit at the Newport Folk Festival).
Turns out 1) this band is the band mentioned to me a few weeks ago by the pastor of Derry Presbyterian, and 2) they were inspired to form the band when they saw the What Cheer? Brigade play.
So, despite missing the only rehearsal between my acceptance into the band and their next gig, I was invited to play. I packed a tambourine, goat-hoof bracelet shaker, sticks, and snare drum into my backpack and down rode Front Street, boom-ba protruding over the handlebars like a jouster's lance.
We played a pretty standard roster of pep band tunes, but the crowds in town for this weekend's Kipona Festival loved it. Now, to get my hands on the old charts from the Balkan Band...
Well, yes to all, except that age thing. So I sent them an email mentioning my tenure in Swarthmore's Balkan Brass Band, and detailing my love of street bands, in particular, Providence, RI's What Cheer? Brigade (recent sleeper hit at the Newport Folk Festival).
Turns out 1) this band is the band mentioned to me a few weeks ago by the pastor of Derry Presbyterian, and 2) they were inspired to form the band when they saw the What Cheer? Brigade play.
So, despite missing the only rehearsal between my acceptance into the band and their next gig, I was invited to play. I packed a tambourine, goat-hoof bracelet shaker, sticks, and snare drum into my backpack and down rode Front Street, boom-ba protruding over the handlebars like a jouster's lance.
We played a pretty standard roster of pep band tunes, but the crowds in town for this weekend's Kipona Festival loved it. Now, to get my hands on the old charts from the Balkan Band...
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Updates
We're in town. We have a place. We both (Nate and I) have jobs, though I need more hours to make more dollars.
But we're here, in the place that will be home for a year (or more...?), and now it's time for a report on the Burg.
I. Work
I work at the Midtown Scholar Bookstore, a hub of the arts and academic scene here in Midtown, and in Harrisburg in general. This makes it a wonderful place to work, though my hours are less than desirable--I work through dinner and right into the night. I remind myself that, although I won't be out in the community making the connections that Nate and I came here to make, I will be behind the counter when plenty of people are making their way through the store. I am learning to be a barista.
II. Farm
I've just begun volunteering my mornings at the Joshua Farm, in Allison Hill (a nearby neighborhood that has been identified as a food desert). They are a working CSA, and also support an after-school program for kids from the community. It's only my second day there, and they're already giving me vegetables. Today was harvest day, so that probably has something to do with it.
III. Music
I'm always looking for more ways to indulge my favorite hobby, and while having a record player and decent speakers in the apartment is great, I need to do more. So I've been playing my banjo on the riverfront, looking at the paddle-wheel "Pride of the Susquehanna." I've also sent around videos of the Balkan Band to convince people that I am part of an awesome band, and that they really need me to be in their band. That might be working out; more details to follow.
IV. Other (aka Media)
I've just finished reading Suzanne Collin's YA "Hunger Games" trilogy. I have my thoughts, but I don't want to spoil it for anyone, so if you've read it, let me know, and we can chat. I've been listening to NPR's coverage of the Newport Folk Festival, and the online preview of Ray LaMontagne's newest album, "God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise." I recently watched Stanley Kubrick's noir/heist film "The Killing" and the recent release "Winter's Bone" (playing at the local arthouse which is showing "Get Low" next week!). Check any or all of them out if you get the chance.
V. Conclusion
As I ride my (awesome, fast, green) road bike (thanks mom!) between the urban farm/CSA, the coffeeshop/bookstore, and my apartment in the artsy neighborhood where my record player and banjo await, and I cannot help but worry that I have, officially, become a hipster. Those of you who are the praying type, please pray that my pants do not get tighter; that I continue to enjoy bands' second and third albums, and that I refuse to ever consume PBR.
But we're here, in the place that will be home for a year (or more...?), and now it's time for a report on the Burg.
I. Work
I work at the Midtown Scholar Bookstore, a hub of the arts and academic scene here in Midtown, and in Harrisburg in general. This makes it a wonderful place to work, though my hours are less than desirable--I work through dinner and right into the night. I remind myself that, although I won't be out in the community making the connections that Nate and I came here to make, I will be behind the counter when plenty of people are making their way through the store. I am learning to be a barista.
II. Farm
I've just begun volunteering my mornings at the Joshua Farm, in Allison Hill (a nearby neighborhood that has been identified as a food desert). They are a working CSA, and also support an after-school program for kids from the community. It's only my second day there, and they're already giving me vegetables. Today was harvest day, so that probably has something to do with it.
III. Music
I'm always looking for more ways to indulge my favorite hobby, and while having a record player and decent speakers in the apartment is great, I need to do more. So I've been playing my banjo on the riverfront, looking at the paddle-wheel "Pride of the Susquehanna." I've also sent around videos of the Balkan Band to convince people that I am part of an awesome band, and that they really need me to be in their band. That might be working out; more details to follow.
IV. Other (aka Media)
I've just finished reading Suzanne Collin's YA "Hunger Games" trilogy. I have my thoughts, but I don't want to spoil it for anyone, so if you've read it, let me know, and we can chat. I've been listening to NPR's coverage of the Newport Folk Festival, and the online preview of Ray LaMontagne's newest album, "God Willin' and the Creek Don't Rise." I recently watched Stanley Kubrick's noir/heist film "The Killing" and the recent release "Winter's Bone" (playing at the local arthouse which is showing "Get Low" next week!). Check any or all of them out if you get the chance.
V. Conclusion
As I ride my (awesome, fast, green) road bike (thanks mom!) between the urban farm/CSA, the coffeeshop/bookstore, and my apartment in the artsy neighborhood where my record player and banjo await, and I cannot help but worry that I have, officially, become a hipster. Those of you who are the praying type, please pray that my pants do not get tighter; that I continue to enjoy bands' second and third albums, and that I refuse to ever consume PBR.
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